Talk It Out
by Known Unknowns
Summary: He is lost, utterly and completely. One-shot, Spoilers for Season Eight, Songfic.


**Talk It Out**

**A House MD Fanfiction**

**Author's Note: Today is October 21st, officially five months since the American premiere of the series finale. In loving memory of James Wilson, I present you with a new story.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House MD.**

* * *

_Oh brother I can't, I can't get through_

_I've been trying hard to reach you, cause I don't know what to do_

_Oh brother, I can't believe it's true_

_I'm so scared about the future and I wanna talk to you_

_Oh, I wanna talk to you  
_

Loss is a peculiar thing.

Some people feel it immediately. As soon as their loved one departs this world, so too does a part of themselves. It's not like that for him, though. He just feels... numb. A complete lack of emotion, a kind of emptiness that should cause pain, but hell, at this point he's pretty much forgotten how to feel anything at all.

He stands over Wilson's grave as midnight creeps in, and he just wonders why he isn't on his knees, crying. Why he isn't buried in his own self destruction as usual.

He feels like he should have only been able to do this if he was stoned, or drunk. Somehow, completely off of his own accord, he had sought out his best friend's grave. Sober.

At first, he's not sure why he's here. Perhaps he just wants to see where the man who meant the world to him will spend the rest of eternity. Of course, he doesn't believe in eternity, does he?

He couldn't go to Wilson's funeral, obviously. After all, he's supposed to be dead. So was it closure? No, he doesn't think so. When Wilson's eyes had fluttered shut for the last time, that had been all the closure he needed.

Closure. He thinks it amusing that people seem to think that closure brings happiness, relief.

It doesn't. He's learned that much since losing his best friend.

He sits down in front of Wilson's grave, crossing his legs in spite of the severity of his leg pain. It's gotten a lot worse since Wilson's death.

He lets out a choking, tearless sob as the emptiness thinly concealing his pain suddenly breaks as he reads the words engraved on the tombstone.

**"Here lies James E. Wilson, a healer, a fighter, and a friend. 1966-2012."**

Wilson had asked him before his death to come up with something to put on his grave. House had originally thought his choice of words were cheesy, insincere, but Wilson had said it was perfect.

He realizes now, why he's here. He is lost, utterly and completely.

_You can take a picture of something you see_

_In the future, where will I be?_

_You can climb a ladder up to the sun_

_Or write a song nobody has sung_

_Or do something that's never been done  
_

It is so dangerous letting someone else become your world. When you reach a point that their life means so much more than your own - than anything, really, that's when you put yourself at risk for a loss so massive, it has the ability to destroy you.

He's been destroyed and built back up a lot over his years. However, before, he had Wilson. Wilson, who almost unfailingly had been there when he fell.

Now he's fallen farther than ever before. No amount of drugs, hookers, or alcohol can fix this. His heart, through all the pain, has never felt so dead. So empty.

So lost.

What he wouldn't give to speak to Wilson once more. Talk to him. Just like others who lose the person they live for, he hates himself for every argument, every wasted, unvalued minute. He finds himself wishing for Wilson's nagging voice in his ear, desperately.

He just wants to talk to him, one more time. He's not fooling himself - there is no great beyond. Wilson isn't floating up with the other angels. Sometimes, though, he can't beat that small murmur in the back of his mind. The one that's saying, _just talk to him._

He takes a deep, ragged breath. What would he say to his best friend if he had one last chance? Working under the illusion that Wilson could actually hear what he was saying to the cold, sullen graveyard, he hesitantly speaks.

"Wilson... you don't even understand what this feels like right now." He says, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling with held back emotions.

_Are you lost, or incomplete?_

_Do you feel like a puzzle, you can't find your missing piece?_

_Tell me how do you feel?_

_Well I feel like they're talking in a language I don't speak_

_And they're talking it to me  
_

"There's nothing left for me, Wilson. Nothing." He breaths out, the tears finally stinging their way down his freezing cheeks, making him shiver. "I don't regret giving it all up for you, not for a second, but now..."

He never thought about what would happen after the cancer had finally taken Wilson from him. He didn't want it to sully the final five months he had with him. He can't really avoid the thoughts now, and his mind keeps hitting a brick wall when he tries to think of what to do next.

"I just wish you were here. I need you to tell me what to do, how to cope. This is your specialty, not mine. I can't... I can't do this alone." He takes his palms and presses them into his eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. He has no one left to go to. He's lost everyone and everything. He can't return to the hospital without running the risk of jail time. Anything familiar is impossibly far out of his reach.

He lays down in the freshly shoveled dirt in front of Wilson's tombstone, his bones aching. He is not as young as he used to be.

_So you take a picture of something you see_

_In the future where will I be?_

_You can climb a ladder up to the sun_

_Or a write a song nobody has sung_

_Or do something that's never been done_

_Do something that's never been done  
_

"I should've thanked you." He coughs after what might have been minutes of silence, or maybe hours. Lost in his misery, he's not sure. "For everything. For keeping me sane... or as sane as I could be. The last five months were the best of my life." He finally removes his hands from his eyes, and instead they find their way to the ground, digging furrows in the cold earth.

"You always would bitch at me for repressing things... well, here I am, _not _repressing them." He lets out a laugh that scares him a little, because it sounds a bit on the insane side. He can feel the walls falling down, and it terrifies him. The loss is hitting him so hard, it's breaking down everything, striking directly at his fragile heart. The heart he attempts so hard to hide.

"Never thought the day would come where I would want to listen to you talk more than anything else. I was generally the first to leave the room when you started handing out your patented brand of sage advice..." He looks up at the dark and starless overcast sky. He can barely see in the graveyard, and he wonders how he even managed to find his way to Wilson's grave. "I miss you." He whispers, his head beginning to throb from the hot tears coming from his eyes.

"I miss you, too." The voice sends a lightning bolt through him, and he jerks up. He knows he's hallucinating, it's the only explanation, but he can't help the fire of hope and relief blazing in him.

Sitting up, he looks around and finds the last person he expects to see.

He's standing over him, hands in his coat pockets, giving him a small smile, his brown hair being blown into his face by the mild wind.

"Hey." He says weakly, eyes raking over his best friend. He looks just like he did before the diagnosis, alive, but only this version of Wilson is happier.

"Aren't you cold?" Wilson asks, plopping down on the grass next to him. He just shakes his head, barely knowing how to respond.

"You're not real." He says, trying to crush the misconception already forming in his grief-weakened mind.

"Yeah." Wilson replies, looking at him with his dark brown eyes, still smiling. "Let's talk."

_So you don't know were you're going, and you wanna talk_

_A__nd you feel like you're going where you've been before_

_You tell anyone who'll listen but you feel ignored_

_Nothing's really making any sense at all_

_Let's talk, let's talk_

_Let's talk, let's talk  
_

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**Author's Note: All rights to "Talk" go to Coldplay. Review? I'm stepping out of my comfort zone with this, I'd like to know how I did.**


End file.
